The Black Widow
by SheWritesThings
Summary: Sherlock's death leaves John in a downward spiral. One day a desperate lawyer who read his blog comes to John for help: to prove an infamous serial killer innocent. Running low on money, John must take the job, though doing it will be impossible. But John doesn't realize that his texts to Sherlock have been read, and that Sherlock might just be helping him behind the scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

John Watson sat in his usual chair, across from the one Sherlock would have been sitting in were he ever not pacing around, or experimenting, or making himself a nuisance. Except that now, Sherlock was dead, and that chair was always empty, and there were no more experiments, and the flat was entirely all too silent. John shifted in his seat, scrubbed a hand over his face, looked around the room, wiggling his legs up and down. It was so hard to be here. He'd cleaned out the flat, put all of Sherlock's things away. Even the skull. The flat was entirely his now. It was easier that way, without having to look around and constantly be reminded of him. Sometimes he felt guilty. He hadn't been able to move, not yet. He wasn't strong enough. But he hadn't found a new roommate either, and money was short.

It was a day like any other. He'd just gotten off work, which had been far too boring. It wasn't enough to keep him distracted anymore. He'd found his mind wandering on more than one occasion – wandering back to Sherlock. He'd spent so long in denial. Months and months. Denial – that's what his therapist had told him. But he was so _sure_. Sherlock wouldn't kill himself. He was alive. He'd found a way. John wasn't sure how, but he knew that he'd somehow found a way to fake his death. He'd thought it all over, every possibility, but he hadn't been able to figure Sherlock out. Which wasn't surprising; he was never as bright as Sherlock. Sherlock had reminded him countless times.

He'd never thought he'd miss his best friend's constant reminders of just how perfectly _ordinary_ he was. But he did.

And how was it that somehow his thoughts always circled back to Sherlock? It almost never failed. He hadn't told his therapist about that, of course. She'd come up with some term for whatever was wrong with him when everyone knew what was really wrong. He was heartbroken, plain and simple. And was that really so hard for everyone to understand? He'd watched his best friend kill himself, for God's sake! He'd been the one to hear his last words (_Goodbye, John._) Was it really so hard for people to understand that he was having a difficult time? What did they expect? It'd only been nine months.

Nine months, two weeks, and three days.

Nearly a year. Nearly a year of pain and suffering and anger and hurt and _denial_. Did they expect him to be happy again after only a year? They were the ones with the problem. Not him.

Mrs. Hudson hovered over him constantly. _Are you alright, dear? Anything you need, dear? Oh, I do miss him so on nights like these…_ She meant well, but he just wanted to be left alone. He didn't think it was too much to ask. He would go to work, and he would be bored, and he would start thinking about things he couldn't bear to think about. And then he would make money that wasn't quite enough to cover rent because he was working less hours than he should have been, and then he would come home, where he would love to be left alone, which almost never happened. He thought maybe Mrs. Hudson was too worried about him to leave him alone for any length of time; probably she thought he would off himself as Sherlock had, but how much sense would that make? If he ended it, he wouldn't be around when Sherlock finally revealed himself, and told them all that it was a trick, and that he had a perfectly good explanation for all of this.

And he was _not_ in denial. He just hated to think about the alternative. That Sherlock really was dead, buried in the ground, and that John would never see him again.

"Oh, God." John leaned forward in his seat, buckled in on himself just a little, pressed his hand against his eyes and swallowed convulsively. He squeezed his eyes shut and sniffed, moving his hand and blinking rapidly, looking around the flat that was now solely his. It was so lonely.

He got up, shook himself off, and padded over to the fridge. It didn't have much in it, but that was fine, he didn't feel like eating anyway. He was just bored. What he needed was a distraction, but he didn't have the will to find one. And besides, what kind of friend would he be if he ran from this? If he didn't allow himself to feel the pain of his best friend's suicide?

He decided he needed a shower.

He was just letting the water stream over him when he thought he heard someone calling his name. He listened for a moment, and then he was sure of it. With a sigh, he shut off the water, toweled off, and threw on a robe. It was Mrs. Hudson.

And apparently Mrs. Hudson had brought a guest, which he had not been expecting, nor was he prepared for, given that he was only wearing a robe and his hair and skin were still slightly damp.

"Oh! You're in only a robe, how indecent—"

"It's alright," said the guest, a young, professional-looking woman. John ran a hand through his hair and looked at Mrs. Hudson expectantly. She hesitated, still flustered at John's _indecency._ When she took too long to speak, the woman stepped forward.

"Bryony Scott," she said, offering her hand. He took it. "Mr. Watson, I presume?"

"Yes," John said and Mrs. Hudson hurried out. "Um, what can I do for you?"

"Do you mind if we sit?" John shrugged. She made to sit in Sherlock's seat. "Ah—not there," he said quickly. "The other one."

"Right," she said as John sat in Sherlock's spot. She sat and smiled nervously. John just looked at her. A bit of water dripped off his hair and ran down his nose. Bryony blew out a breath.

"Miss Scott—"

"I need your help," Bryony finally blurted. John laced his fingers together. He tried to look patient. "I—I've read your blog, you see. I know what you do."

"I don't do any of it," he said, suddenly irritated. He stood. "I just wrote about it. And that's done with."

"No, you don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly, Miss Scott. Something's happened, and you need a detective. Am I right? But it's all a lie, haven't you heard? A scam. I can't help you."

"But you can—"

"Please leave."

"Not until you hear—"

"I said leave." He pursed his lips and Bryony stood before him stubbornly. There was a file in her hand. He avoided her gaze.

"I don't believe that it was a scam," she said softly. "And I need help."

"You've got the wrong man."

"You're the only one who can help me." John said nothing. The human part of him, the humanity inside, wanted to listen to her, hear her out. But the rest of him just wanted her to leave. "No one else will help me," Bryony went on, taking a step toward him. "Please."

"Sherlock was the brilliant one," John said, fumbling over the name, losing his breath a little. "Not me."

Bryony sighed. "You were his partner. You watched him, you learned from him—"

"I am not him. I cannot do what he did."

"But—"

"Please just go."

"Dr. Watson, _please_. If you don't help me, she'll be killed." John had been walking away, but that stopped him. Bryony, seizing the opportunity, went on quickly, hopefully. "I can't lose her. I owe her _everything_, and she'll be put to death—"

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"But—"

"_Go!_" he shouted. She flinched, looked hurt, scared, desperate. But she nodded, eyes downcast. He turned his back on her, waited until he heard her open the door. When it didn't close, he turned around.

"She's my sister," Bryony rasped, her eyes very large and very sad. Her lip trembled. "Everyone says that it's impossible. No one will help me. And if I can't prove her innocent, she'll be killed."

John held her eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said. "But I can't."

Bryony nodded, her dark blond hair falling into her eyes. She tucked it behind one ear and left the flat, closing the door behind her. John sighed heavily, gritted his teeth, walked away and got dressed. He eventually shuffled back into the main room again, mind and body exhausted. It was too early for bed, but all he wanted to do was sleep and forget about the woman. He felt for her, he really did, but what did she expect him to do? He couldn't help her—literally. It wasn't within his power. He wasn't like Sherlock. And if it was a case involving death, it was definitely far beyond his abilities even on his best day. It simply wasn't possible.

When he sat down again, folded in on himself on the seat, he noticed a small card on its arm. Puzzled, he picked it up and looked it over.

_Bryony Scott  
Prosecuting Attorney_

In small print below her name was her contact number. He flipped the card over, and a small note was written in her handwriting. A fair sum of money – enough to take care of rent for quite some time – and the word _please_. He closed his eyes and flicked the card away. And yet, that number wouldn't leave his mind. It would definitely help him out. But—no, what was he thinking? This was entirely, completely impossible. He wouldn't think about it anymore, and that was that.

* * *

Four days passed, and John was very good at not thinking about Bryony the lawyer and her case and her money, which, admittedly, he did need or he would be out on the streets. He spent his days in various shades of gray fog. Nothing stood out and nothing particularly interested him, which had become normal over the last nine months. Mrs. Hudson had questioned him about the girl a time or two, and he'd managed to avoid sharing too much. Not that he had anything to hide. He just didn't want to engage her in any sort of conversation.

It was on the fifth day that John spotted her card again. It also happened that he had been fired that day, which didn't make him feel anything in particular except for maybe a little relief. He wouldn't have to deal with those people anymore. In a way, logically, he knew that it was bad, but he couldn't summon the will to _care_. Not really.

The sixth day he didn't leave the flat.

The seventh day he ran out of milk, and when he went out to buy some, he realized just how little money he actually had. For a moment that alarmed him. He'd thought he'd had more.

On the eighth day, he stared at the card and he debated with himself and he decided not to call her. He read over his blog, which he hadn't done for a long time, and he slammed the laptop closed and had to take a few moments to compose himself.

On the ninth day he gave in and called her.

"Bryony Scott."

"It's John Watson."

She showed up at the flat a couple of hours later. John sat her down in front of him, and she eagerly showed him the file, though he made it clear that he wasn't making any promises and that he probably wouldn't help her.

"You've heard of the Black Widow?" Bryony said, pushing the file toward him. He flipped through it. Just a bunch of paperwork, a few photographs of crime scenes and victims.

"I remember," he said. "A few years back. I can't say I remember the specifics, however."

"Woman kisses man, and he's dead within twenty-four hours. Well, there's been another murder," Bryony said. "Identical to the others in every way."

"So the Black Widow strikes again…" John murmured.

"But that's the thing," Bryony said. "She swears it wasn't her."

"The Black Widow?"

"Yes."

"Well, of course she's lying. She wouldn't admit it, they never do."

Bryony shook her head. "No, you don't understand. The Black Widow—I know her. Personally. She's my sister."

That got his attention. John looked up. "Your sister is a serial killer."

Bryony narrowed her hazel eyes. "It was never proved."

"Right," John said, blowing out a sigh. "Look, this is way, _way_ out of my league—"

"I'm not finished," Bryony pleaded. "The Black Widow is my sister, yes. And she says it wasn't her. That it was a copycat."

"But?" Bryony was quiet for a moment. John watched her face, her downcast eyes. She shifted, looking uncomfortable. "You don't believe her, either." He said, sitting back.

"I don't know."

"Has she given you any proof that it wasn't her?"

"Just her word."

"Look, Miss Scott—"

"Bryony."

"Bryony," John said. "I'm sorry, but it seems pretty clear to me that your sister is guilty."

"No one else will help me," Bryony tried again.

"And I think there might be a reason for that."

"John, _please_," Bryony begged. "I don't know what else to do. She says it wasn't her, and I can't let my sister be put to death for a crime she did not commit."

"And if she did commit it, which seems very likely?"

"Then she did it. But I can't _not_ try. And you're my only hope." John rubbed his forehead, looked up at the pleading young girl before him. "I'll pay you, up front. A deposit. Just for trying. And if you prove her innocent, I'll double it."

"That's a ridiculous amount of money."

"I'm desperate," Bryony said. "Please. Fifty thousand pounds up front. One hundred thousand if you prove her innocent. That's more than some people make in a year. _Please_."

"You can't be serious," John said, winded by the sheer thought of so much money.

"I am. I know it's difficult. Hell, I know it's nearly impossible. But I _need_ your help."

John hesitated. Finally, he shook his head. "I need time," he said. Bryony said nothing. "Just give me some time. I need to look this over." He waved the file at her. She nodded.

"I understand."

"I'll call you tomorrow with my decision."

"Alright," Bryony said, standing. "Thank you."

John grunted as Bryony let herself out.

Logically, it would have been foolish _not_ to take the job. Even if he failed – which he would – he would still receive fifty thousand pounds. _Fifty thousand_. That was enough to make a lot of his problems go away for quite some time. What would Sherlock do, he wondered? And then the thought of his best friend caused him so much pain that he had to steady himself for a moment, screwing his eyes shut, taking a breath as though all the air had been suddenly sucked from his lungs.

Desperate for a distraction, he went through the file. There were photographs of dead men, killed in various ways: stabbed, shot, suffocated, poisoned. Each one had a red hourglass painted on his front door in red. Each kill was identical, followed a pattern. The man presumably slept with or had some sort of romantic affair with a woman, and then was dead the next day.

The Black Widow had been caught a few years back, but she hadn't been imprisoned. He couldn't even remember her name or her face, and it wasn't included in the file. The most recent murder followed the same formula exactly. Man was spotted with a woman, and he'd had the hourglass on his front door. Everything about it was the same, at least as far as John could tell. Sherlock might have seen something different.

Hours later, when his eyes were tired, John set the file aside. He'd read through it a couple of times, but knew he had only just scratched the surface. Perhaps Bryony could tell him more, if he decided to try and help her. Still conflicted and feeling entirely inadequate, he picked up his phone.

_Girl came by today. Wants me to prove the Black Widow innocent. Don't know if you remember her. Girl offered fifty thousand pounds to help, and double if I'm successful. This would be much easier if you were here. – JW_

He knew he would never get a reply, but sometimes texting or calling Sherlock's phone helped him think, helped to ease the pain a little. The battery had died long ago, he knew. The phone had gone with Sherlock. But it did help, just a little, when nothing else would.

By the time he fell asleep, John knew what he was going to do. He didn't have much of a choice. He'd just been fired, after all. He knew he was getting himself into a messy situation, one that was very, very far out of his league, one he couldn't hope to solve, but he needed the money. He'd be a fool to turn it down. He resolved to call her in the morning.

It was too easy to sleep now, with the flat so quiet. He could hear everything in the silence; the patter of rain outside, the creaking of the stairs and the floorboards. It was devoid of life. With Sherlock, it seemed, so had the life gone out of it, leaving John behind in a cold, unfriendly flat that, truth be told, didn't seem like home anymore.

His sleep was restless, as always, and he woke up more than once. It took three sleeping pills to finally put him out for the night, and when he woke, he felt no more rested than when he had fallen asleep.

He hated that when he checked his phone in the morning, he felt that little pang when he had no new messages, when Sherlock hadn't replied. It was just a reminder, again, that he never would. He wasn't sure why he still hoped. He was a fool, he knew. Maybe he was in denial after all. He pushed these thoughts down, at least for the moment, and dialed Bryony's number.

"John?"

"Yes," he said. "I've decided." Bryony waited. John took a deep breath. "I'll do what I can."

* * *

_Girl came by today. Wants me to prove the Black Widow innocent. Don't know if you remember her. Girl offered fifty thousand pounds to help, and double if I'm successful. This would be much easier if you were here. – JW_

He almost hadn't read the message, but he was glad that he did. He sat down at a computer, bored out of his mind as he was, and did some research. He needed to be distracted anyway. _The Black Widow._ He remembered the case perfectly. She had been guilty. He'd known it. And yet the jury had opted for _not guilty_, which had puzzled him. How could they be so wrong, when it had been so obvious?

The fact that she was on the move again definitely had him interested, at least a little. He went over her victims, all of them from the past, and there were quite a few. And then he went over her most recent victim. His eyes widened and he smiled, ever so slightly, to himself. The copycat's mistake was so painfully _obvious._ He pulled out his phone.

_She's innocent. – SH_

The message, however, remained unsent.

* * *

**AN:** Chapter one. I hope you liked! This story will be told from John's POV, with little snippets of Sherlock here and there. I've got a definite plan for this, and I'm very excited to let it unravel! But, please, if you've read it… drop a review! It's just below, and it's so easy to do, and they really do give me the little boost I need to write faster. Because if no one reviews, then I think no one's reading, and why write a story no one is interested in?

Hopefully people are interested. So please, feel free to leave a review. I'm very nice, and I don't bite, and I do reply to all reviews. Thanks for reading, and feedback is much appreciated!

**Question:** How was John? Was he in-character enough?  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** We meet the Black Widow in this chapter! I love her. ;)

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

It wasn't long after Sherlock's fall that people, his past clients, began to step forward and condemn him. Anything they could do for a bit of cash. They told the papers that they had thought it suspicious, how good he was. Nobody could be that clever.

Sherlock could.

John was one of very, very few who refused to help tarnish Sherlock's reputation. Not that it mattered. The world Sherlock had built up for himself had crumbled rapidly, and he hadn't been around to deal with the aftermath.

John had.

He'd done it; he'd dealt with it, for his best friend. People thought John a fool. He had been shunned. But he had refused to speak a word against Sherlock. They all thought him an idiot, or thought him in on the scheme that didn't exist, that Moriarty had created. But John didn't care. He would have done anything for Sherlock, anything he had asked, but he could not do this. He could not comply with Sherlock's final request. _Tell everyone who will listen_. And he did not. He remained, stone-faced, stubborn, silent. He would never speak a word against him. He wouldn't let them win, and he wouldn't give them what they wanted.

He had been furious with the reporter who had come to him asking about the Black Widow case. Rumors were spreading that John was helping her, and the media loved it. _Don't you know Sherlock was a fraud? Do you really think that _you_ can help? Is this your way of trying to prove that he was genuine?_

John had slammed the door in her face. The last thing he wanted or needed was media attention, after what they had done and were continuing to do to Sherlock. Angry, he was suddenly determined to help Bryony, and not just for the money. If he could do this (which was impossible), perhaps he could help Sherlock's name. If he was successful (which he doubted he would be) maybe it would prove that Sherlock _hadn't_ been a fraud.

It was a long shot, he knew, but he had to do it. He believed in Sherlock, and he had to do anything he could to stop them dragging Sherlock's name through the mud.

The red hourglass that was the Black Widow's mark was on the door, sure enough. John reached forward, letting his fingers trail over the dried red paint. There was no one around; he and Bryony were alone on the crime scene, which probably wasn't entirely legal, though he couldn't be bothered to give a damn anyway. Lestrade may have let him on, had he asked, but he wasn't much in the mood to talk to the detective, given the role he had played in Sherlock's downfall. John was a loyal man. Loyalty was something he _believed_ in, wholly, completely. And when it had really counted, (in John's eyes, at least) Lestrade hadn't been there. Lestrade had arrested him.

Part of him knew he was being unfair, of course. He knew Lestrade believed in Sherlock, just as John did. That Lestrade hadn't had a choice in the arrest. But it helped to have someone to be angry with. They'd talked a few times since Sherlock's death, both of them grieving in their own ways, but it hadn't been right. The thing that had united them was gone.

John shook these thoughts away, pulling his fingers away from the paint. He looked around, trying to channel his inner Sherlock Holmes. _What would Sherlock do? What would Sherlock do?_ He was trying, but he wasn't getting anything aside from what was painfully obvious from the scene. Sherlock would be having a good laugh at him if he were here, that was for sure.

"Come on, John," he murmured to himself. Bryony was already inside, waiting for him. He headed in and looked around. They were inside the victim's home, a young man named Dwight Bane. John had already gone through the file on the scene. Dwight had been young, single, with divorced parents. He'd worked in a café not far from his home. Everything about him was perfectly average, perfectly normal.

"Just a guy," Bryony had said, shaking her head sadly.

Dwight had been stabbed several times, John had read. Looking at the scene now, it was clear that Dwight hadn't died immediately, and that the Widow had left before he'd been dead. He'd dragged himself into his room (John could tell by the smears of blood) and grabbed a phone, but had died before he'd reached anyone. It was a fairly gruesome scene, but nothing he hadn't already seen with Sherlock. He thought back to those times, the investigations with Sherlock, tried to make his brain work as his best friend's had. What would Sherlock have asked him?

He didn't have the faintest idea.

He sighed, standing up from where he had been crouching to inspect the blood. He combed over the room, but there was nothing of significance, nothing that hadn't already been mentioned in the write-ups. He entered the main room again and found Bryony standing in the center, looking at him anxiously.

"Anything?" she asked, eyebrows drawn.

"Nothing," John said. "Nothing to indicate that it may have been someone else."

Bryony sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I feel like we're going about this the wrong way," she murmured. "I don't even know where to _start_—"

"I need to talk to her," John said, nodding. "There's nothing here that will help us."

"You can't," Bryony said, and John looked at her. "I don't know where she is."

"But you spoke with her."

"She texted me."

John held out his hand. Bryony found the text thread and handed the phone to him.

_Been another murder. Back to your old habits? –B  
Wasn't me.  
Looks like you to me. –B  
I didn't do it.  
How can I believe you? –B  
I promise._

John raised his eyebrows and looked at her. That was what he was going on? He looked back down at the phone, reading the rest of the thread, hoping it would give him something else. The texts were hours, sometimes days in between.

_You're going to have to be more specific. –B  
They're going to come for you. –B  
I know how to hide.  
I know you do. I need more than your word. –B  
I need an alibi. –B  
Hello? –B  
Come on. –B  
I can't do this. –B  
Fine. I'll find someone to help. –B  
No one will help us. –B  
Things don't look good for you. –B  
Are you even alive? –B  
Did you get my texts? –B  
Oh, come on. –B  
I've found someone to help us. –B  
Idiot.  
Me or him? –B  
Him. But also you.  
Don't you want to know who he is? –B  
Doesn't matter.  
It's John Watson. –B  
You know, THE John Watson. He worked with Sherlock Holmes? –B  
Fine. –B_

That was the end of it, and it hadn't helped him out at all. John began to type his own message to her.

"What are you doing?"

_This is John Watson. You say you're innocent? We need to talk._

"Let me know if she responds," John said. "Immediately."

"I will," Bryony said, but shook her head. "I doubt she will, though. They're hunting her down, you know. The police. There's a warrant out for her arrest, and she's hiding. She's smart. She won't make herself known, not to anyone."

"Worth a shot," John said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He went over the crime scene again, then turned with a sigh. "I think we're done here."

* * *

Bryony had paid him the fifty thousand as she had promised, and John felt elated just holding the check in his hands. He would deposit it tomorrow. He would pay Mrs. Hudson. And he would stay, and he wouldn't have to work for a while. Of course, without work, there was too much time in the day for him to sit and do nothing, so maybe it was good he had taken the case, he thought. He was lost without Sherlock, of course, but that was nothing new.

It was dark out, and he and Bryony had gone their separate ways hours ago. There had been no word from the Widow, who he planned to research extensively, exhaustively, once he got home. 221B was in sight, and he reached into his pocket, fishing around for the key. There was a cab parked out front, and John noticed and ignored it. He was just fitting the key into the lock when he received a heavy blow from behind, shoving him forward. He yelped in surprise as a hand grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him around, slamming his back into the wall beside the door. He dropped his key.

He struck out with a fist at his attacker, but whoever it was had been expecting this. The next thing he knew, he was staring at a gun that was aimed directly between his eyes. The cold barrel pressed against his skin and he went very still, raising his hands in surrender. His attacker stood before him, and he took in everything he could about him. They were the same height, he and John, though the attacker's build was slightly smaller. He was wearing a trench coat with the collar turned up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower portion of his face. John's eyes scanned rapidly downward. His attacker was wearing—women's boots?

"Get in the cab and don't make a sound." The attacker rasped, and the voice was distinctly feminine. With the gun still to his head, John was forced into the cab, and the woman with the gun slid in beside him.

"Who are you?" Though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer. That gun didn't leave his head once as the woman told the driver to take them to a park that wasn't far. When they arrived, the woman grabbed his collar and dragged him out. There were no people around; John was alone with her as she dragged him some ways away, where they would certainly not be found. She finally stopped, gun still to John's head, and took a couple of steps back.

"Oh, don't look so surprised," she drawled, using her free hand to tug her collar down and remove the scarf. "You called me, remember?"

As soon as he saw her face, it all became clear. He hadn't been able to remember the Black Widow's face before. The specifics of her case, as the media had put it, hadn't stood out to him. It hadn't been important. But as soon as he saw her, even in the darkness, he remembered it all. Because she was _beautiful_, exotic-looking with her dark hair, skin, and eyes, the sort of girl you didn't see often. And that had been the thing the media had latched onto: her beauty. It was what had made the Black Widow the name everyone knew.

"Are you going to kill me?" John asked calmly. He'd always been good at calm, always so stoic, even in the face of danger. The Black Widow's eyes flashed and she removed the gun.

"Of course not," she said, running a hand through her silky dark hair. "You're not my type."

"Why not?"

"You really don't know?"

"What?"

"You haven't figured it out!" she cried, pacing like a caged animal.

"I've got nothing to go on—"

"You've got _everything_ to go on!"

"Enlighten me, then," he said, shrugging and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"I can't," she said, waving the gun at him.

"Why not?"

"I don't know if I can trust you yet."

They watched each other and she came to a stop in front of him.

"You say it's not you," John said.

"Of course it's not me," she snapped in an offhand manor.

"Then you need to tell me—"

"You need to figure it _out_," she urged him lowly, suddenly standing very close to him. The barrel of the gun pressed into his abdomen. He felt her breath on his face. "You need to _think_. It's the most crucial detail of them all, John Watson, and _you've_ _missed it._"

"Just tell me—"

"_I can't!"_ The gun was suddenly at his forehead again. She tapped him rapidly between the eyes with the gun, and he winced. "Think. _Think._ You have to figure this out. It's so obvious, it's _obvious_ why it's not me."

"But you have killed before."

"Of course I have. That's the point."

"And you expect me to help get you out of this one," he said incredulously. "You've killed innocent people, and you want to sneak free again."

"I don't kill people who don't deserve it. That trial is over and done with John Watson, and it's time to move on. I haven't killed in years, and I'm not going to be punished for a crime I didn't commit."

"But you have committed it," he pointed out.

"_In the past_. Jesus, let it go."

"Ever thought it might be karma?"

"That's just it," she said urgently. "Don't you see? That's just it. If you knew what you're supposed to know, if you knew the key, you'd understand. You're dancing around it, but you haven't got it yet, and you're of no use to me."

"I don't understand why you can't just tell me."

"I did tell you," she said. "You just weren't listening."

John rubbed his forehead. "You can put the gun down," he told her. "You already said you wouldn't kill me."

"You caught that much, at least," she said sarcastically, and he narrowed his eyes at her. "Maybe you're not completely useless."

"So what is it, then?" John asked her, and she looked at him sharply. "What's your story? You're a beautiful girl. And you're a serial killer."

"That's a man's greatest weakness, isn't it?" she mused. "A woman's greatest weapon is her beauty."

"So that's it? You hate men?"

"What makes you say that?"

"All your victims have been men," John pointed out. "That's what you do. You sleep with a man, and he winds up dead."

"Wrong," she said. "They've all been men, yes. But I don't hate men. You're still not getting it. And I don't sleep with them." She looked insulted. "I kiss them. Everyone who is killed, I've kissed, but not everyone I've kissed has been killed."

"I don't understand."

"Obviously."

They stared at each other for a few moments in silence. John was more than a little annoyed with her. The both of them were calmer now, though the Black Widow still looked urgent, agitated.

"Look," the Widow finally sighed. "In all honesty, I do need your help."

"The way I see it," John said, "it doesn't matter either way. You've killed before."

"The past, John Watson, the past."

"That's the thing about the past, though," John said. "You never quite escape it, do you?"

She smiled slowly. "True. But I'll pay you."

"I'm already being paid."

"Good, a little extra incentive then. We both know you need the money."

"I do," he said, "but I've already been paid. I don't need the rest, and I don't particularly care what happens to you."

"You wouldn't feel that way if you had it all figured out," she said. "It'd change everything."

"Doubtful."

The Black Widow shrugged. "I'm innocent," she said. "That I promise you. I'm being framed."

"How do you know?"

"Money can buy you lots of things, John Watson, but it can't buy you loyalty. There's a reason these look like my own work."

"Right," he said, lost.

"You don't get it," she sighed. "But it's so obvious. You're blind, you don't really _see_."

"Perhaps," he said, "but I'm the only one on your side, aren't I?"

"True," she smiled, shaking her head. She combed her hair back, stuffing the gun in a pocket in her trench coat, and John couldn't help it: he noticed the way it hugged her curvy figure, drawn in at the waist. She noticed him noticing of course, and she smirked and slid up close to him again. "This is what I want you to do for me, John Watson," she murmured. "I want you to go home, and I want you to do your research. And I want you to _pay attention_. Look at my victims. _One of these things is not like the others,_" she sang. She took another step closer and leaned in very close to him. She flooded his senses, the smell of her, the sound of her, the brush of her hair like silk. Her breath tickled his ear when she spoke. "And when you figure it out," she said, sliding her hand into his pants pocket. He went rigid, held very still. "Then we'll talk."

She stepped back and his mobile phone was in her hand. She entered her number casually and tossed it to him. He caught it easily, though he was more than a little flustered. He cleared his throat and she smirked at him. She began to walk away. "Oh," she said, turning, "one more thing. Don't tell Bryony about our little _rendezvous_."

"Why not?"

"I don't want her knowing I'm around. It's for her protection."

"Right."

"The cab's waiting for you back where we came from. He'll take you back home." She was walking backward now, smiling a coy smile. She wrapped herself up in her scarf again, turned up her collar, hiding her face. "Have a good night, John," she said. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

When he got back home, the first thing he did was exactly what she had asked: he did his research. There were many articles to go through, and they all carried the same theme. One of them summed it up in the title: _Black Widow or Black Beauty?_ All of the articles focused on how pretty she was. "_Beautiful woman moonlights as deadly serial killer."_ "_Much like the deadly arachnid that is her namesake, the Black Widow sleeps with her victims and then kills them." _There were pictures of her, of course. Pictures of her in the street, in custody, in handcuffs. Pictures of her smirking at the camera, looking sultry, confident.

Her real name, as it turned out, was Helena. _Helena Dubois_. Which didn't make sense, because Bryony's last name was Scott. He'd have to ask her about that. He went over the articles for hours, paying special attention to her victims. They were all men. So was the most recent victim. They were all older than 20, and so was the latest victim. He couldn't figure it out. Finally, he texted Sherlock.

_She says the key is in the victims. I'm so lost._ – _JW _

He pushed his phone aside, returning his attention to his research. His phone rang, startling him. For one absurd moment, he thought it might be Sherlock, and he seized his phone. It was Bryony. He picked up.

"Bryony?"

"There's been another murder."

* * *

_She says the key is in the victims. I'm so lost. – JW_

"Of course the key is in the victims. That's where the fake messed up!" Sherlock cried to no one in particular. He was going out of his mind. "Come on, John, _think_. What is it about the last victim that is different? The devil is in the details."

He wanted, with every fiber of his being, to simply text John the answer. It was all there. Right in front of him. Plain as daylight, staring him straight in the face. All he had to do was _look_. He picked up his phone.

_Married, you idiot. They're all married. – SH _

Even if he sent the text, which he couldn't do, he doubted it would help John much. That was the key, certainly. Everyone Miss Helena Dubois had killed had been married. They were adulterers. Helena Dubois was a murderer, yes, but she had her own set of morals, this was clear, and she followed those guidelines. And this was the detail. She wouldn't kill an innocent young man like her latest victim had been. It hadn't been her.

But this information wouldn't lead John to see the rest of the puzzle. He would need help, Sherlock was sure of it. He would need help figuring it all out, putting all the pieces together, and there was so much that John hadn't even begun to uncover, and to uncover it, he would need Helena's help. Assuming John's strong own sense of morals didn't mess things up. She was a murderer, this was true. But there was a bigger picture here, a puzzle Sherlock desperately wanted to see through to the end.

He was pretending to be dead, which put a little kink in things. But he was clever. He could push John in the right direction, couldn't he? And no one would be the wiser. Even better, there had just been another murder, this one full of more mistakes, more clues. The only way this could get any better was if Sherlock was actually publicly _alive_. He'd have to make due pushing John, then, it seemed.

Closing his laptop, Sherlock stood and headed toward the spot where the murder had occurred.

* * *

**AN:** Okay, so John is going to be figuring the basics out within the next chapter. That's not what this story is about, of course. There's going to be a lot more to it, and I'm very excited to get into all of it! Thanks for reading, and please, please leave a review!

**Question: The Black Widow/Helena Dubois. Thoughts on her? I'm pretty proud of her. She just writes herself! I love how she can go from manic to sultry in an instant, like she did with John. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Can you spot Sherlock's attempt to help John? He's not very good at it… ;)

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

"It's her, John," Bryony said hopelessly, shaking her head. She'd just finished giving him the details. "I really think it might be her." She looked up at him through large hazel eyes, begging him to tell her it wasn't so. "I can't lose her. But—"

"Maybe not," John said, trying to console the poor thing. He cleared his throat. "Don't give up hope just yet." Bryony blinked rapidly, sniffing. "Did you ever hear back from her?" John wondered.

"No," she said, wiping at her eyes. "She's probably gone by now, dumped her phone somewhere along the way. Who knows where she is? She's always fancied France…"

John, of course, knew this was far from the truth. She'd been at his door only the night before, dragging him around, confusing him, yelling at him.

"Come on," John said, softening his voice. "We can think our way through this. Tell me everything about her. What's she like? On a personal level."

"She's—well, she's a psychopath, obviously," Bryony said quietly, shaking her head. "I mean, she's my sister, and I love her. But she _kills people_, John. That's not normal."

"Aside from that, I mean. Anything we can use, anything at all. Even the smallest details might be important."

Bryony sighed. They were sitting across from each other outside a little café, each of them with a cup of coffee. She stirred hers around thoughtfully, wiping at her eyes again, and John waited patiently.

"She… she's funny," Bryony finally said softly, smiling a little. "One of the funniest people I know." John nearly rolled his eyes. Helena Dubois had seemed anything but funny last night. "And she's eccentric. You know what I mean?"

John shrugged. "I've never met her, so…" _Shut up, John_, he told himself. "Go on."

"Eccentric," Bryony mused. "I think she has OCD or something. Everything always has to be _just so_. I used to spend hours at her place just walking around, messing things up, and then watching her go back and fix them. She always denied it, though. And she does this really irritating thing, where she says people's names _a lot_ when she talks to them. First and last, always."

This wasn't helping. The bit about first and last names was something he had noticed the night before (_John Watson, John Watson)_, but it was useless information. John tried to think about what she had told him last night. The victims were the key. "What about her victims," John said. "All those years ago. Did she target anyone?"

"Not that I know of," Bryony said, chewing her lip thoughtfully. "Men? I'm no good at this. All I know is that she was, ah, _sexual_, with all of her victims."

"Right," John murmured, drawing his eyebrows, tapping his fingers. So she kissed them all, so what? _I don't kill everyone I kiss, but everyone I kill I have kissed,_ or some rubbish like that. So what did it mean? What did it all come down to? "And we know that she was sexual with these men?"

"That's what the witness said," Bryony stated dryly, with a roll of her eyes. "Didn't bother to hide it, did she?"

"Can we speak with them?"

Bryony shook her head. "I can't get their names."

"Of course," John muttered. "So that leaves us with nothing."

"I'm sorry, John," Bryony said. "I know you're trying, but maybe—maybe it's no use."

John looked at her, perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean _there are witnesses_," she went on. "Someone saw her with him. It doesn't get much more condemning than that." John said nothing. Last night the Widow had seemed so compelling. Then again, maybe it was just the gun he'd had pointed at his head. He didn't know. It'd been a couple of weeks since this thing had begun. Surely Sherlock would have had it figured out already, if there even _was_ a case here. Maybe he really was wasting his time.

"I meant to ask you," he said suddenly. "When I researched her; her name is Helena _Dubois_, and you're Bryony _Scott._" He looked at her left hand. "But there's no ring on your finger."

"Oh, that," Bryony said. "I had to change my name. I'm a lawyer. I didn't want to be linked to her forever."

"Ah," John said, nodding. He sat back in his chair and they both lapsed into silence. He wondered if he should tell Bryony about the meeting he'd had with the Black Widow last night (thinking of her Helena seemed too familiar), but in the end decided against it. If the Widow was being honest, he didn't want to endanger Bryony, the poor girl. She'd been through enough as it was. He looked at her, sitting across from him, arms wrapped around herself. She seemed so small, so frail in comparison to her sister, who matched John's height and had bested him, shoved him roughly against a wall.

He thought back to their encounter the previous night, racking his brain. He thought of every single tiny detail she had said, tried to analyze them inside and out. He thought of the murder that had occurred last night before the Widow had met him. Wade Cassidy, age 47, no family to speak of. His wife had died a few years ago. He'd been poisoned. The hourglass had been on his door. The witnesses said she had gone in, stayed a few hours, and left. That was all.

"This is useless," John grumbled to himself, and Bryony looked up at him again. She smiled sadly.

"I should be going, anyway," she said, looking up at the sky. The sun was only just starting to set. "If you decide to quit, no one would blame you. Thank you for trying." She reached out and touched his shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze, and headed off. He watched her go for only a moment. Maybe he should just give up and go back to his life. He already had the money, and this case was impossible. All it was doing was frustrating him.

And he was in contact with the Black Widow, of all people! She was definitely not one to be trusted. He remembered the manic, frantic gleam in her eyes from the night before and shook his head. This was _definitely_ something he didn't want to get mixed up in. He'd be dead before he knew it, with the hourglass on his door and no one to mourn him.

Yes, he was definitely done. This wasn't his problem. Bryony wasn't his problem, and even _she_ was sure the Widow had committed the murders—the Widow, who had openly admitted to him that she'd killed before. And she wasn't his problem, either. She would get what she deserved, if the police ever caught up with her. Not that he was going to talk. He didn't fancy the idea of being the next man to fall prey to her kiss.

Decided, he finally hailed a cab, headed home. He showered and idled around, doing nothing of great import, but the more time he spent in the flat, the more peculiar he felt. He eventually stopped and looked around. Something felt… _off_. He couldn't explain it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, however, and his heart rate went up slightly. He couldn't explain the feeling, but somehow he _knew_: someone else had been here.

The Black Widow. He called out, not expecting an answer, and searched every room, but he found nothing. Nothing seemed to be out of place, either. When he asked Mrs. Hudson, she told him no one had been up in the flat and that she hadn't heard anyone moving around, either. He ran a hand through his hair, sat down in front of the TV. Maybe he was going crazy. But when he flicked it on, he knew that he wasn't. The last time he'd been watching, it hadn't been some crap program, whatever this was, one of those shows where they try and figure who fathered who's child. He stood immediately, watching. This episode was about a man who had cheated on his wife with three different women. She was screaming at him about being married, and what it meant, and their broken vows.

Leaving the program on, he tore through the flat again, searching, heart pounding. Maybe he was going crazy. After all, who would sneak into his flat, watch a stupid show, and then just leave? Nothing was missing. There were no notes left for him, no clues. He didn't understand. Perhaps he was just being paranoid. His hair was a rumpled mess by now, he'd run his hands through it so often in frustration. As he approached the TV again, it was going on about how the woman had, in fact, cheated on her husband as well, and was now pregnant.

_How predictable._

He was losing it, that was for sure. When he was absolutely sure that everything was locked and no one was waiting to kiss him or murder him, and that there was no hourglass anywhere, he sat, trying to calm himself. _Easy, John, easy._ Obviously he had left the TV on this program he rarely watched and, being as frightened as he was, convinced himself that he hadn't. It was as simple as that.

The woman, who was shouting that she should kill her no-good husband, drew his attention again. He settled back in the chair, rested his head in one hand, and watched. He would never admit it, but he was soon drawn in. Guilty pleasure, which was exactly why he didn't watch these shows often. He finally shut it off and went back over to his desk, where the murder files were scattered. He didn't want to, but his eyes scanned them anyway.

Steven White, 39, married, 2 kids.  
Antony Caparelli, 44, married, 1 daughter.  
Martin Lauren, 48, married, no kids.  
Jack Keates, 42, married, 4 kids.  
Matthew Rhodes, 44, married, 2 kids.  
Paul Cubbins, 45, married, 3 kids.  
Wade Cassidy, 47, widower, no kids.  
Dwight Bane, 28, single, divorced parents.

As he murmured these facts aloud to himself, he finally noticed the pattern. _Married, married, married, married, married, married—widower, single_. He went through the other cases. Married, married, married, married. They were all married, all of them in their late 30s at least (aside from Dwight Bane). Was that the pattern? It was the only one he had noticed. He rubbed his hand over his mouth. The details, she had said, _the details_. Every single person she had been accused of murdering had been married, aside from these last two. There was no other constant variable. He swallowed and grabbed his phone. Who to call? Bryony, or the Widow?

Because he didn't want to get Bryony's hopes up just yet, he decided on the Widow. He began to search for her number, and then he stopped himself. Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe he shouldn't mess with it. If she was caught, she would be punished for these crimes (which there was a slight chance she hadn't committed), but she would be paying for old crimes. Did he really want to stay involved in this? He glanced around the dreary flat, and he thought of Bryony's sad, desperate eyes, and he knew his answer.

The Widow had entered herself in his phone under _Helena_. He sent the text quickly: _I think I've got it. –JW_

The phone rang immediately. He hesitated one last time and then picked up.

"I told you to call me for a reason," she growled. "Phone records. They can get copies of texts."

"I think I've figured it out," John said.

"Oh, have you?" she sounded doubtful.

"Is it that—"

"Shut up, shut _up_. Not over the phone. I'll come to you. Wait for me outside. I'm not far."

"Why?"

"Just do it." And the line went dead. He briefly considered texting Bryony, but what would he tell her? _Meeting with your psychopath sister. If you don't hear from me in a couple of hours, I'm probably dead_. And he decided against it and headed down to wait outside, taking a gun with him this time, sliding it into the waistband of his jeans.

He kept an eye out for her this time and turned when he heard the click of heels. She was wearing a long trench coat tonight, again drawn in to accentuate her figure. This one had a hood, which she had drawn up to hide her face. Her hands were in her pockets, and the boots she wore had heels, making her taller than he was.

"Come on," she said as she passed him. She didn't stop, leaving him no choice but to follow.

"Where're we going?" he demanded.

"Don't worry, John Watson, I'm not going to kill you."

John snorted, hurrying to keep pace with her long-legged, brisk stride. He kept an eye out for anyone who might be lurking in the shadows in case she was leading him into a trap which, the further they want, seemed more and more likely. When they finally stopped they were a few blocks away from the park, behind a row of shopping buildings that were closed. She spun to face him, her hood hiding her features, casting her in shadow. After a moment of looking around, she tugged it down, shaking out her hair.

"What've you got?"

"Me first," he said firmly. He pulled out the gun and pointed it at her. She rolled her eyes, slumping her weight onto one hip, looking exasperated.

"Honestly," she said, shaking her head. She pulled out her own gun and aimed it at him. "Go on then, what's on your mind?"

"Where were you last night?" His voice was hard, firm, left no room for her to try and weasel out.

"Slaughtering that Cassidy fellow. Why?"

"There are witnesses," he told her.

"Big mistake," she mused, screwing her mouth to one side. "Amateur, whoever's framing me. It's a bit insulting. It's like they don't know me at all."

She raised her eyebrows at him. When he didn't budge or lower the gun, she sighed theatrically and stepped forward. Her gun was cold against his forehead, and his pressed into her chest. She slipped her warm, soft hand over his (not the sort of hands he would have expected a serial killer to have) and moved his gun, positioning it over her heart.

"Do we really have to do this, John Watson? Can't we just talk?"

"I know you won't kill me," John pointed out.

"It's nothing I haven't done before," she said, shrugging one shoulder. "Maybe I'm a liar."

"But you don't kill people who don't deserve it," he said, repeating her words from last night.

"True," she admitted. "But that doesn't mean I won't shoot you somewhere _else_." She backed him against a wall and pinned his free wrist. And she lowered the gun to his shoulder. "Here," she said, then pressed it to his thigh, "and this wouldn't be deadly, either—" He moved his gun to knock hers away, but she shoved away from him, turning in a circle. She waved her gun at him. "Just put that thing away. Let's talk like civilized people, shall we?"

And she stowed her gun away and in one motion, she folded her legs and sat right there on the pavement in front of him. Then she looked at him expectantly, nodded at the spot in front of her, and grinned. Looking around and feeling quite foolish, John sat as well. But he kept the gun visible. She looked at it for a moment and blew out a sigh.

"So," she said. "Now that we've established that it wasn't me last night, will you tell me what you've figured out?"

He hesitated. "Married. They were all married."

"And we have a winner," she cried, smiling a wicked smile. "And…?"

"And?"

"That's all you've got?" she despaired. "Alright, I can help you through this bit. I only kill married men. But."

"But…"

"What do I do to them before?"

"You… kiss them."

"Good," she said, nodding encouragingly. "And a man who kisses another woman while he's married, what do we call him?"

"An adulterer."

"Precisely. So, what can we conclude?"

"That your victims were only adulterers," John said aloud as it dawned on him. "But _these_ two men—"

"They don't fit the puzzle," she said, smiling. "So there you have it. It wasn't me."

John looked at her in disbelief. She rolled her eyes. "That's it? That's your proof?"

"Of course that's not it," she snapped. "There's so much more to it."

"Right," John said.

The Widow sighed. "Are you going to help me, John Watson? We have to find out who's actually doing this."

They looked at each other steadily. Her big brown eyes were pleading, her eyebrows drawn, her pretty face open and without malice. He began to shake his head. She shrugged and pulled her gun on him again.

"No one will hear you out here, you know," she hinted.

"I don't trust you."

"You've got trust issues," she drawled. "I'm perfectly trustworthy."

"_You are a murderer_."

"I _was_ a murderer. I haven't killed in years, and trust me, it's a pretty lucrative business—"

"You were _hired_ to kill people?"

"Well I didn't just do it for kicks—" John stood. "Wait," she said, startled. "What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving. I'm not helping a _hired killer_ escape."

"John Watson, you don't understand—"

"_Shut up!_" he cried. She was on her feet now, in front of him, and he had his gun pointed at her. "You're a hit man," he said.

"Hit-_woman_," she muttered under her breath.

"Shut up," he growled again.

"Look, don't judge me, we all have to make money somehow—"

"Not by murdering innocent people—"

And she snapped. It was like a switch had flipped. _"They were not innocent!"_ she shouted. "I don't _hurt_ innocent people, and those _bastards_ were anything but innocent! Why doesn't anyone _understand_ this?" She was pacing again. Her gun was drawn yet again, but she didn't seem to realize it. She waved it around as she gestured with her hands, and the side of it was currently pressed to her head, where she had brought her hands in aggravation. She grimaced and made a soft whimpering noise as she paced, and her eyes were suddenly teary. She was very visibly upset as she whirled on him again.

"You don't under_stand_, you don't understand," she whispered in a fractured voice. She raised her eyes to his. "I am _not_ a bad person, John Watson."

"Calm down—" he said slowly.

"_Don't tell me to calm down_!" John froze, keeping his gun trained on her as she paced. "You have no _idea_ what I am going through," she snarled. "You don't know me. You have no idea what's happening. _I need your help._ You are the _only_ one who can save me."

"Oh, I doubt that very much," John drawled. "You seem to be perfectly capable of handling yourself." He attempted to move past her, but she blocked his way. He tried to dodge right, but she blocked him again. She was very good in those heels.

"John," she tried, and they tussled for a moment before she shoved him against the wall again. He was getting very tired of this. The brick was rough against his cheek. "Help. Me. Doesn't it matter to you that there's someone else out there murdering people?"

Yes, in fact, it did. It bothered him immensely. But he had grown colder in the last few months, and he wasn't Sherlock, and he couldn't solve this without him. And he was definitely not getting tied up with a paid killer. After all, he was now almost completely certain that this was all just an act, and that it was all the Black Widow anyway and she wasn't being framed.

Calling on his military training, he spun around, knocking her gun aside. It skittered across the pavement. His right arm went out, catching her around the neck as he flipped their positions, flattening her against the wall so that she faced him. He wedged his knee between her legs, pressed his forearm to her throat, and used his body and his weight to pin her. She gasped in shock but then smiled slowly.

"Are you trying to have your way with me, John Watson?" Her voice was low, husky.

"Don't be disgusting," he spat. He pressed his gun into her stomach. "Here's what you're going to do," he said. "You're going to let me go. You and I are going to part ways here and now, and it will be like this never happened. We'll forget about each other. Understand? Don't come looking for me, and I won't tell the police anything. I'll tell Bryony I can't help her. And we'll get on with our lives."

They were so close that his breath stirred her hair. She winced against the pressure of his forearm on her throat, though being that she was a woman and he a gentleman, he made sure not to hurt her.

"Am I understood?"

She closed her eyes for a long moment, breathing deeply. "Get your hands off of me."

"_Am I understood?_"

"Yes," she said through gritted teeth. He shoved away from her. He backed away slowly, his gun trained on her, and she took a moment to compose herself. She smoothed her coat and looked up at him, and they watched each other for a few moments.

"John Watson," she said again, and her face was suddenly very scared. He turned away from her and started walking back the way they had come. He ignored her. She said nothing else, and he half expected to be shot in the back. But when he turned to glance back, she had disappeared. He hailed a cab once he reached the street and rode back home. When he arrived, he sent Bryony a quick text, gathering all of the paperwork together.

_I don't think there's anything left to be done. I'm sorry. I'm not Sherlock. You can collect your things tomorrow. –JW_

Her reply came a few moments later.

_I understand. Thank you for trying. –B_

When he had everything together and ready to give her when she came by tomorrow, he changed and settled into bed. He was incredibly stressed, and he needed to unwind. He draped one arm over his eyes and sighed heavily, unable to believe the night he had had. Feeling foolish and ashamed, he decided to text Sherlock. He was, surprisingly, embarrassed of himself. Sherlock would have been annoyed with him, he was sure. Murderer or not, Sherlock would have thought it an interesting case. He would have wanted to finish it.

_You'd be embarrassed of me. I gave up. I can't help a hit man. –JW_

* * *

"Can't help a hit man?!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Oh, John, but it's so much more than that! You can be so dull. You're missing the bigger picture!"

It was times like these when Sherlock really, really regretted being dead.

* * *

**AN:** I am having so much fun writing this. John and Helena/Black Widow just write themselves when they're together. Expect the next chapter sometime tomorrow (it's already written), but please remember to leave a review! I respond to them if you leave your name behind and don't do it anonymously, but I love anons just as much! All reviews are fantastic!

**Hint: Since the next chapter is already written, reviews might just motivate me to post it ASAP. ;) No, I'm not above bribing you people!**

Thanks so much for reading. I hope you're enjoying it!

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**


	4. Chapter 4, pt 1

**CHAPTER 4**

A week had passed since John's last encounter with the Black Widow. In that time, he had returned all of the documents to Bryony. He had sat peacefully in his flat, and he hadn't worried about anything. He had relaxed. He had no regrets. And he was happy, or as close to happy as he could get lately. No one bothered him. There hadn't been any more murders. Everything was fine and well, as far as he was concerned. He had enough money to hold him over for a while, at least until he could find another job. But for now, he was fine.

Of course, these things never lasted.

John had just returned from the store, carefully opening the door without dropping anything. He headed into the kitchen and put everything in its proper place, and as he was bending over to put the milk away, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a strange feeling overcame him. He stood slowly and looked around; he was not alone. He had heard something. His heart hammering, he glanced into the living area and his heart nearly stopped.

The Black Widow was standing in the center of the room.

"Jesus!" John gasped, slamming the fridge door closed. He took a breath and looked at her. "What—how—"

She looked different. Everything about her was different, from her face, to her clothing, to her posture, to her demeanor. She tilted her head to one side and smiled softly, her eyes large and uncertain.

"Hi," she said in a small, raspy voice.

"How did you get in here?" John demanded, as if there weren't more pressing matters at hand. She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I picked the lock," she said, as though this should have been obvious to him. "It's not that hard."

"I'm calling the police," he said, reaching for the phone, and she rushed him.

"No, no, no," she pleaded. He'd just dialed the first number when her dark hand clamped down over his. She was just in front of him now, her eyes only inches away. He noticed that her lower lip was swollen and split. "Please," she said. Slowly, gently, she pried the phone from his grasp and tossed it to a chair across the room. "John."

"I told you—"

"I know," she interrupted, backing slowly away from him. "I know. I remember. I know how you feel about me. But please, just hear me out." She backed all the way into the living area and stopped at the small table. She picked up a paper cup and offered it to him. "I brought hot chocolate," she said. "It's cold out. And—and it's the good stuff, the thick stuff. For you."

John couldn't remember the last time he had been so confused or taken aback. Here she stood, a notorious murderer, in the middle of his home, offering him hot chocolate. He just stared at her. She looked like an entirely different person. Her face was softer, less cold and severely beautiful. Her posture had changed, lacked the cockiness she had possessed whenever she had encountered him before. Her eyes were larger, had less makeup, and her face was open, earnest. She looked vulnerable.

She looked scared.

John's eyes flicked down to the hot chocolate in her hand. He took it and set it on the counter. She watched him for a moment. "I'm not armed," she offered. "You can search me if you don't believe me."

That made sense. John stepped forward, locking eyes with her, his expression harsh, warning. What on earth was going on? She held her arms out and stood straight as he skimmed his hands over her body, checking her pockets and the folds in her clothing.

"Enjoying yourself?" He could hear the smirk in her voice as his hands skimmed her hips.

"Shut up," he said. When he was certain that she was unarmed he backed away and came to stand in front of her, crossing his arms. He said nothing. She shifted awkwardly in front of him, looking painfully uncertain.

"I like your jumper," she finally offered. "Stripes suit you."

"What do you want?"

"I'm not here to kill you, John Watson, so you can relax," she said. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. So let's just get that out of the way." John nodded stiffly. She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers snagging in the loose curls. She chewed her lower lip, still looking uncomfortable.

"Get on with it," John snapped.

"I need your help," she murmured, and her lower lip quivered. John rolled his eyes. She was a phenomenal actress.

"I already told you I wanted nothing to do with you. Remember that?"

"I do. But you don't understand what I'm dealing with, John Watson. Someone wants to kill me."

"I'm not surprised," he said, shrugging. "Given your history—"

"You don't know anything about my history," she spat, her eyes flashing. Then she hesitated. "And… and that's why I'm here."

"You are not my problem," John reminded her. "I don't know how I can be clearer. _I don't care_."

She made a soft sound. "I'm not the one killing those men," she said. "But someone else is, and someone is trying to frame me. And now they're after me."

"Who?"

"I don't kill the men myself," she said. "That's what henchmen and minions are for. But this _imposter_… they paint my symbol, and then my men kill. But they think it's me, and they expect me to pay them. That was always the arrangement. But it wasn't _me_, and I won't pay them, and…"

"And so now they're after _you_," John said.

"Yes," the Widow breathed. John shrugged.

"Sounds like you had better get out of town."

"John," she said, approaching him. "I don't want to die." She moved past him toward the sink and ran the tap, washing her face.

"What are you—"

She ignored him, dried her face, and walked back to him, standing very close. "Look," she said, tilting her head, moving her hair aside. The bruises were difficult to see because of her dark complexion, but they were there, blooming beneath her skin, along her jaw and cheekbone. His lips parted slightly in shock and he followed the bruises down. Her throat was raw and red, as though someone had caught her from behind with a piece of cloth and tried to strangle her. "See?" She moved a step back and repositioned her hair. She then removed her coat and rolled up the hem of her shirt, showing him her ribs, which were also badly bruised, splotched with purple and red.

"Jesus," John murmured, running a finger along his lower lip as she fixed her shirt.

"That was one of them," she said. "He attacked me last night. I wouldn't have come to you, John Watson. But they will kill me, and they will do it slowly and they will do it painfully, and I need your help."

"I—" John wasn't sure what to say. On the one hand, she was a murderer. On the other… "How did you get away?"

She smirked, but it looked painful now. "I can handle myself against one man," she said. "They won't find his body, not for a while." John stared at her. She had killed again. "It was self defense!" she cried in exasperation. "I think the person who is framing me wants me dead. I'm not sure yet. But I need your help."

She gazed into his eyes for a few long moments. He blinked and looked down. "Look, I can't get caught up in all of this—"

"I'll keep you safe," she promised. "I won't let anyone hurt you."

"That's not—"

"Just give me tonight," she pleaded. "One night, John Watson."

"Tonight—"

"Oh, don't tell me you have plans."

"I just might," he said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms and glaring at her. She clearly did not believe him.

"No, you don't."

"What makes you so certain? I could have a date, or—"

"Your best friend is dead less than a year," she said, and her voice was infinitely gentle. "You don't have plans." John looked down again, frustrated, stung. She was right, of course. He never had plans. He didn't _want_ plans. "Come on," she urged. "Trust me."

"Trust you," John scoffed.

"Yes, trust," she said.

"And what would we be doing tonight?" John asked. "Assuming I agreed."

"I'm just going to show you where I grew up," she said, looking uncertain, as though she really did not want to have to do this. "I'm going to make you understand." John said nothing. "And then," she went on, "if you decide you don't want to help me, fine. I won't come to you again. I won't bother you. I'll be gone, I swear, and you'll never see or hear from me again. Just give me tonight, and I'll respect whatever decision you make."

"That's all I have to do?" It sounded too simple.

"Yes." Her voice and her eyes were unwavering. John paced around the kitchen for a moment, running a hand through his hair as she watched him.

"So if I go with you, and I decide I don't want to help you—"

"I'll disappear." John held her gaze and she held his. "Deal?"

"And this isn't a trap?"

"Of course not. You'll be perfectly safe."

"Jesus," John muttered to himself, unable to believe what he was about to do. He turned away from her for a moment, thinking. _What would Sherlock do?_ Of course, as soon as he had the thought, he was gone.

"Fine," he said. "Deal."

* * *

**AN:** I split the chapter into 2 parts, since the next part is much longer. I'll post it soon. Do I need to bribe my readers again? You know what reviews do to motivate me! ;)

Thanks so much for reading! Any feedback is amazing. How are you liking it? **How are you liking the John/Widow interactions?**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**


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